by Oliver North
Andrew has all of that—and more. He also has a great sense of humor. He has a T-shirt with the words "Marine for Sale" printed on the front. On the back it reads: "40% Off—Some Assembly Required."
"I am continuing to get stronger every day through therapy, and I have especially been encouraged by my improvements in learning to walk again. I have worked harder here than I ever did during my academy days or infantry training, yet I can credit these improvements only to the grace that God provides me each day. God is so good! "I would like to thank all of the individuals, families, and churches that have prayed specifically for me throughout this entire ordeal. I truly believe in the power of prayer, and I am so grateful for the prayers lifted up for my sake. I ask that when you pray for me, please also pray for those wounded veterans that do not know Christ. I don't know where I'd be without my faith."
— Lt. Andrew Kinard, 25 June 2007
LCPL AARON MANKIN
It was 11 May 2005, Al Qaim, Iraq, day five of Operation Matador. When the massive IED planted in the dirt roadway detonated, the explosion ripped into the assault amphibious vehicle like a bullet through warm butter. Fuel from the twenty-three-ton vehicle's ruptured fuel tanks ignited immediately, searing the men and weapons inside. Six of them were already dead—killed by the blast. For the rest, it was a matter of getting out of the inferno or die by flames and smoke—or by the ammunition being "cooked off" in the intense heat.
One of those trapped inside was a young Marine who didn't even have to be there. LCpl Aaron Mankin, a combat correspondent assigned to II MEF headquarters in Fallujah, had volunteered to accompany our FOX News team as we headed to western Al Anbar province to cover the operation along the Syrian border. His job was to write stories and shoot still photographs and video. As we headed out on the operation, I had told him to "be careful."
Mankin cracked back, "No, you be careful. I may have a camera in one hand, but I have a rifle in the other."
He was standing up in the back of the armored vehicle, his camera rolling on the Marines moving to cordon a suspected Al Qaeda terrorist haven, when the bomb went off. The force of the explosion knocked Mankin to the floor of the vehicle and slammed shut and warped the overhead hatch that he had been standing in. Those who survived the initial blast struggled out of the inferno through a narrow emergency access at the rear of the vehicle. By the time he dove out onto the ground, his clothing and exposed flesh were on fire and his lungs were seared.
As he rolled in the dirt to put out the flames, a Navy hospital corpsman, disregarding exploding projectiles just a few feet away, raced to extinguish the burning Marine. Aaron was quickly placed aboard a litter and loaded aboard a U.S. Army H-60 casualty-evacuation helicopter with three other wounded Marines.
One of the Army pilots who braved exploding ordnance to land near the flaming assault amphibious vehicle told me that he remembered Aaron because "I could smell his burned flesh in the cockpit" and his medic kept yelling at the grievously burned Marine, "Hey! Hey! Don't go to sleep! Stay with me!"
Concerned that Mankin would not make it, they took him straight to the Army Trauma Hospital at Balad. There, doctors cut away his burned clothing, applied antibacterial dressings to cover his burns, and put him on a ventilator to help him breathe. Then they shipped him on a USAF C-17 Nightingale to Landstuhl, Germany. Two days later he was in Burn Unit 1 at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas.
Brooke—known as "BAM-C" in the military—is probably the finest burn center in the world. When Aaron arrived, the doctors determined that he had suffered second- and third-degree burns over 25 percent of his body. His nose, ears, and cheeks were literally charred—and the flames and debris that he had inhaled inside the burning vehicle had seriously damaged his airway from his mouth to his lungs. His lungs were already filling with fluid. The doctors kept him heavily sedated for days as they fought to keep the Marine from succumbing to the two great killers of burn victims: pneumonia and infection.
With the help of specifically tailored antibiotics and round-the-clock attention, Aaron beat the odds. When I saw him again, it was November of 2005—eight months since he was wounded. By then he had already endured nearly two dozen surgeries, the amputation of half his right thumb and index finger, and operations to extend motion in his wrists, arms, and mouth. Skin grafts had been performed to restore tissue on his hands, arms, and face. His father, Steve, describes his son's survival as an answer to prayer.
When I talked to Aaron, he was seated next to his mother. He told me, "My initial goal was survival. I wanted to see Diana, my girlfriend, again. I wanted to see my family again. Now I want to have a future—and a family of my own."
He also acknowledged that he was worried about what Diana would think of him. He had no nose, ears, or lips from the flames that had engulfed him. His face, hands, and arms were scarred. Would she, he wondered, still care about a man so disfigured?
Aaron need not have worried. He and LCpl Diana Kavanek had met when they were in training, before he shipped off for Iraq and she to Afghanistan. When she arrived back in the U.S. in December 2005, she flew immediately to San Antonio to see Aaron. They were married in February 2006, and their daughter, Madeline Paige Mankin, was born in January 2007.
Little Madeline's dad isn't done recovering yet. On 4 October 2007, Brooke Army Medical Center and the UCLA Medical Center teamed up to create "Operation Mend"—a collaboration of burn specialists and plastic surgeons. Aaron Mankin was chosen as their first patient. He has since had surgery to start the process of reconstructing his nose, ears, and mouth—and there's more to come.
In between operations Aaron works at Brooke Army Medical Center in the public affairs office as a patient-media liaison and counsels other wounded soldiers and Marines. As I was writing this book, his dad sent me a DVD of his son speaking at a church in Rogers, Arkansas, his hometown. In it, Aaron says, "From the start, I knew I'd get better. I always knew that it was a part of God's plan. God's been very faithful to me even though I don't deserve it. God gave me the chance to be part of something that will be remembered in the chronicles of history."
Aaron Mankin is a hero worth hearing.
"It makes you wonder why [military medics] that are smart enough to do something like that stay in the Army. I mean, they could've just as easily been making a lot more money in a safe and comfy hospital. I'm just glad that they do it. I'm sure that their reasons are similar to mine. They are patriotic; they enjoy the camaraderie in the Army and the sheer adventure of it. They believe in this country and are willing to stand up for it and do whatever it takes to make sure it stays safe. They are the kind of people who are willing to fight to make sure we feel safe when we go to sleep at night. They fight so we can feel comfortable when we go to the grocery store or to the shopping mall, without the fear of a terrorist attack. They are the people who hate violence more than any liberal protester but are prepared to use it to give that protester the right to speak his or her mind even if it may be directly against them. They get their reward in personal satisfaction instead of money, and they know they are doing an important job for our country, and doing it well."
— SSG Robbie Doughty, a Special Forces soldier who lost both legs in an IED attack in Iraq
Marine Capt. Brad Adams was riding in a Humvee near Fallujah in October of 2004 when a young boy riding a bicycle approached his vehicle. Hidden in the bike's basket was a command-detonated bomb—placed there by a terrorist who used the child as an unwitting delivery service. As the vehicle pulled alongside Capt. Adams's door, the terrorist triggered the bomb with a cell phone, killing the boy and blasting Adams's body with shrapnel. He underwent nine surgeries and recuperated for more than a month at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. "The level of treatment we're getting here is outstanding," he said.
That sentiment is echoed by Cpl Nicolas Roberts, who was badly injured from a gunshot wound in Ramadi. When I met hi
m, he'd undergone seven surgeries. Of his stay at Bethesda, he said, "I'm getting great care here—this is the best hospital in the world."
THE BOTTOM LINE
At the beginning of this chapter, I admitted to bias because I have been a patient of military medicine and I have seen how well "the system" treats our wounded warriors today. Do some casualties "slip through the cracks"? Yes. Could things still be done better? Sure. But "better" is the norm, not the exception. The individual cases cited here are all known to me personally, and they are only a handful of the nearly thirty thousand soldiers, sailors, airmen, Guardsmen, and Marines who have become casualties during the War on Terror. But they really are typical.
The Wounded Warrior Regiment—which Marine commandant James Conway instituted in 2007—offers considerable promise in helping wounded Marines recuperate and then transition back to active duty or civilian life. Our FOX News team visited the Wounded Warriors at Camp Lejeune and didn't find anyone "slipping through the cracks."
Roughly 10 percent of the casualties in the War on Terror have been traumatic brain injuries. These kinds of injuries have occurred at about three times the rate as amputations. But both are usually caused by the same thing: IEDs and suicide bombs. Severe head trauma, in which the brain is injured because of blast, concussion, and/or penetration of the skull by shrapnel or a projectile, often results in terrible, life-long damage. Nobody writes or talks much about the wounded warriors with traumatic brain injuries because so many of them appear to be so hopeless. The next time you have a chance, go to a VA hospital and meet those who struggle to recover from such injuries, as well as those who minister to them.
Finally, a word about post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). For years I was convinced that PTSD was a "shrink's" lifetime self-employment program. Tell a soldier who has been in battle that "you have a problem" enough times, and soon he will have a problem. My solution for PTSD was a size 10 boot in the backside. Maybe this is not as dramatic as George Patton slapping a sobbing soldier in Sicily, but it had about the same effect. Then I saw PTSD up close and personal.
In the aftermath of the terrible carnage on 11 May 2005, on Operation Matador, where six Marines were killed by an IED and fourteen more were nearly incinerated, I saw grown men break down and cry. This happened not just at the memorial service but days later in the barracks, in the armory, and at the mess hall.
Speaking with doctors, nurses, and corpsmen at TQ Field hospital
After observing several of these incidents, I asked a Navy Reserve medical officer what was happening. In his civilian life he works in an emergency room. He offered this explanation that works for me. "Anyone," he said, "who has been in a serious automobile accident—let alone combat—has post-traumatic stress disorder. Everyone of us manifests that PTSD in different ways." He went on, "Some people get back in gear right away and push the memories of a terrible event out of the way, but they still have PTSD. Others need help dealing with it. And some never recover—just like any other trauma."
"Is there one kind of person who deals with PTSD better than another?" I asked.
The doc considered the question a moment, then replied, "I don't know the statistics, but from my experience, those who have strong families and a strong faith seem to handle trauma of all kinds better than those who don't."
Sounds like a pretty good prescription to me.
15
THE "OTHER" HEROES
During the Global War on Terror, more than one million Americans have been deployed overseas. While women have always deployed in support of the men on the battlefield, this war moved women from the background to the forefront.
Behind the old Cadet's Chapel at the United States Military Academy at West Point, there stands a collection of stone monuments, memorials to the old soldiers who rest there. Among them is the grave of a woman named Margaret Corbin.
Margaret was given a soldier's pension after her heroic actions at the battle of Fort Washington, New York, in 1776. When her husband was killed while manning a cannon, "Molly" took his place next to the gun and continued loading and firing it herself until she was also wounded. Women weren't supposed to fight, but Molly did anyway. She became "the first American woman to take a soldier's part in the War for Liberty."
It's still official U.S. military doctrine: Women are barred from serving in "combat arms" military occupational specialties. But this technicality is overshadowed by the fact that in the War on Terror, the "front line" is everywhere. Just ask PFC Jennifer Eischens, a food service specialist who served in Baqouba, Iraq, with the 4th Infantry Division's 1-68 Combined Arms Battalion. Her missions often took place outside the chow hall.
PFC Jennifer Eischens
In a Muslim society, it's culturally unacceptable for male soldiers to speak to Iraqi women. So Jennifer often accompanies infantry squads on their patrols around Baqouba to allow them to do their job without offending Iraqi cultural sensitivities. "It is a change of pace," Eischens says. "I like to go out on patrol—it makes the days go by faster."
If it were not for the uniform and helmet, blonde-haired, blue-eyed SSG Layla Elbel would have no trouble passing as the quintessential American girl. That is, until she opens her mouth and starts speaking fluent Arabic.
SSG Layla Elbel
Elbel has a skill that makes her very valuable to the United States, and it is something she learned in grade school.
"Well, I grew up in Jerusalem, Israel," Elbel explains. "My parents sent me to Arabic school from kindergarten until eighth grade." Her parents are American missionaries.
So what was it like growing up a blond-haired American girl in an Arabic culture? Elbel says, "It was a lot of harassment, from the point that I was a woman in a male-dominated society. And I represented an American Western culture that they did not respect."
Elbel joined the military after high school. It did not take the Army long to discover that she was a gold mine—and not just linguistically.
"I have a cultural awareness that most soldiers who have learned Arabic through the military do not have," she says.
Not surprisingly, it wasn't long before she found herself in Iraq, with a challenging job as the base commander's personal translator.
"I went everywhere with him," she grins. "I listened to other interpreters and . . . [went] on all of his military operations. I was chosen for that position mainly because of my background."
Most U.S. soldiers rarely interact one-on-one with the Iraqi people. But Elbel's job gave her the rare opportunity to talk with them on a daily basis. This gives her a good sense of how the Iraqis feel about their situation.
"Many of the people that the colonel talked to daily cannot thank us enough for what the American soldiers have done in removing Saddam Hussein," she says. "They have a hope and a mission to accomplish now. They have very high expectations, and when they see American forces roll into their area, they automatically feel safe."
Elbel also offers some insight into why many Arabs dislike America. "I think many of the things that they hate about our culture are the same things that we Americans hate about our culture—the constant immorality, the deterioration of our TV shows. . . ."
Her job is both challenging and exciting. And she's done it so well that Special Operations recruiters came calling. Various government agencies wanted her, too. But there was just one problem.
"I've chosen against pursuing them, mainly because my faith in Christ has given me a passion for something different," Elbel says. "I've met some Iraqi women, and to the Western world, they have no hope. And the fact that I could not freely express to them the hope and the freedom that Jesus Christ has given me has been very painful."
So, a few months after her return from Iraq, Elbel chose to leave the Army to pursue another mission—working to bring freedom of a different kind to Arabic-speaking people.
Throughout the U.S. m
ilitary, women are finding themselves in situations that—as far as their job descriptions are concerned—shouldn't happen.
Sgt. Leigh Ann Hester
Leigh Ann Hester was one of those. A sergeant with the 617th Military Police Company, a National Guard unit out of Richmond, Kentucky, she spent over a year in Iraq. On Palm Sunday, 2005, her squad was following a supply convoy near the Iraqi village of Salman Pak when the convoy was ambushed by as many as fifty heavily armed terrorists. Hester's squad responded by plowing into the kill zone with their Humvees, deliberately drawing the heavy enemy fire away from the civilian convoy drivers. When an RPG hit one of the Humvees, wounding those inside, Hester went into action. One of her squad mates, 5'2" specialist Ashley Pullen, laid down suppressing fire while Hester and another soldier entered a trench line full of enemy soldiers and began killing them with grenades and precision rifle fire.
When the smoke cleared, twenty-seven insurgents lay dead, another seven wounded. Hester's squad suffered only three casualties, none of them fatal.
For their heroic actions, three members of the squad were awarded the Silver Star. SSG Hester became the first woman in history to earn the award in close quarters battle.
"It really doesn't have anything to do with being a female," Hester said. "It's about the duties I performed that day as a soldier."